I entered a badly attended club of the Entertainment district of our dear Capitale. I hardly had just returned from a very important meeting in the Anglo-Norman Isles , stating on the recognition of the new nations born of the treaty of Constantinoples, rare agreement where we were on the winners side at the same time as the Britannico-Russians.

I was hardly accustomed to visiting these pity places during my three free-quarters of the day, but it is the place which had fixed for rendez-vous one of my colleagues and good friend: Yorge Lagard. He was a member of the inhabited expedition to the Moons of Eole, little time after the first contact with the Drèykën.

According to the message which he had left to my intention on the Polygraphic Network, he had been surprised to learn a legend on Drèykën origins :

"They claim to originate from Mars and that they have fleed there to escape from a civil war begun by a single word which carried madness among their people, propagated via their quasi telepathic brains. In fact, to this word corresponds a protein which is not recycled by the Drèykën organization, each time that they heard it, the madness gained them little by little.

When a sufficient amount of protein encumbers the contaminated brain, one loses its individuality and becomes a part of the emerging consciousness born of the collective madness. When the las resistant Drèykën left Mars, all of the ill Drèykën had already disaggregated into masses of despecialized cells, saturated with the protein of the madness.

The being resulting from this planetary decomposition propelled pieces of its colossal mass through space to chase the exiled Drèykën and to conquor other worlds, but fortunately the accelerated dehydratation that it produced over Mars plunged it in a slow life state."

Here is all that I know of the Legend of the Drèykën. Of course, I take it for what it surely is: a myth of the origins, mixing the golden age old civilization followed by a quite convenient fall which explains the relative misery of their actual stagnant state.

I requested my friend to the bartender, he answered to go in the back room explaining that Yorge had not been able to wait any for me, and that he seemed unusually excited.

I entered alone. I was surprise to note that the place was an opium smoking room. I did not think Yorge used to one of these illegal places.
I found him laying down, smoking a Scarlet Angel, according to the red clouds which surrounded him, a mix of Indian Opium and Red Coal.

His eyes were red and vague, but in a last breath before falling to sleep he said to me :
"In my opiated dreams, I wandered for years in the Mansion, I found the doorway towards the Tenth Room, where the Master of Fate resides.

The door opens to whom knows his name, Baphomet."